am i everything you hoped i would be,
do my words consume you like yours consume me?
you told me you loved easily
but you were ever so difficult to love,
and how could anyone not fall
for your irises, the color of catkins,
your flesh like roasted pinecones
hair like clusters of clovers,
and eyelashes of fire
that if breathed upon
would float into the balmy glow of the sunset;
i hope that i am one day strong enough
to never admit
how the most fundamental features of you ruined me
YOU ARE READING
horribly beautiful ✔️
Poetrypeople write about things that do not happen. they will romanticize this world in hopes of filling themselves up. they write like their words are food. but i have always written to empty myself completely. i will romanticize feeling nothing. jun...
